


I Could Write Volumes on Our Silence

by Avelyesqe



Category: Les Misérables - All Media Types
Genre: M/M, Oops, happened, what
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-04-16
Updated: 2013-04-16
Packaged: 2017-12-08 15:58:57
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,507
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/763244
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Avelyesqe/pseuds/Avelyesqe
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>“Dance with me.”<br/>Jehan considered declining.</p>
            </blockquote>





	I Could Write Volumes on Our Silence

**Author's Note:**

> I DON"T KNOW WHAT HAPPENED I AM SORRY.  
> I was supposed to write something else like the reincarnation fic or master of shadows or capital letters or something else but then THIS HAPPENED? I don't--
> 
> but anyway hi, have a nice day. Eat some chocolate.  
> Or don't.  
> Whatever makes you happy, man.

Jehan could hear the soft tinkling of a piano coming from down the hall (which wasn’t unusual, it _was_ the performing arts building after all (something was different though. The music wasn’t being played to show off or practice. It was just delicate, somber).

The door was closed, but he could see the light spilling out from underneath. The hallway was dark, and even the most practiced and dedicated of performers had gone home: it was late.

His hand hesitated as he reached for the handle, but he grasped it firmly once he finally grasped it and nudged the door open.

He saw the piano was untouched, and instead the music was coming from a CD player sitting on top. The music reverberated in the acoustics of the room, but it all seemed to bounce back to the center, where Courfeyrac was sitting, unmoving and staring into the mirror.

Jehan sat next to him without a word and he could see Courfeyrac smile in the mirror (but Courfeyrac’s eyes were closed. If he could tell it was Jehan, he didn’t make any indication).

They sat in silence and Jehan studied the rehearsal space. Open, as one would have expected, with nice hardwood floors and mirrors on three walls. There was a ballet bar against the back and the piano was pushed up against it (Courfeyrac hated to practice ballet. He felt it was too structured and rigid (but it was an entirely different story when he knew his choreography)).

The music was soft, twinkling notes: speaking volumes in the silence between the chords. The song was delicate and calming and blissful, but it made Jehan feel sad and somehow he knew it made Courfeyrac sad too.

Somewhere along the way he closed his eyes and let himself sway with the music. He could feel Courfeyrac stand next to him when the music ended (Jehan only noticed that the track stopped when he felt Courfeyrac move beside him. _There is something beautiful,_ he thought, _in something gently fading into nonexistence, rather than disappearing with a bang and puff of smoke)._

Courfeyrac restarted the CD but didn’t return to his place next to Jehan. The poet was unsure if his friend was still in the room until he heard Courfeyrac’s low voice.

“Dance with me.”

Jehan’s eyes were still closed and considered declining. The song felt too personal, too sacred for Courfeyrac to share with him, but he could imagine Courfeyrac’s face and extended hand (which he was sure was actually extended (Courfeyrac rarely said things without an accompanying motion) (he was right)). His will relented.  
  
“Of course.” (And Jehan could imagine Courfeyrac’s smile (not one of the big ones he wears in public, but a softer, smaller one; one that was more private but still reached his deep brown eyes and lit them up).

Jehan got up and walked over to Courfeyrac, letting the taller man take his hand and lead him back into the middle of the room.

Jehan doesn’t actually dance, so he was a little more than lost when Courfeyrac pulled him into a frame and started leading him, stepping back to pull Jehan forward. Courfeyrac didn’t say anything and instead smiles when Jehan faltered and fell into Courfeyrac’s arms.

Jehan wasn’t embarrassed, but he blushed anyway as he righted himself and Courfeyrac started the dance again.  
  
Jehan didn’t know what they were dancing and there wasn’t discernible beat in the music so he couldn’t even guess really; the steps were unfamiliar and Courfeyrac wasn’t stopping to instruct him like he usually does. Instead he just led Jehan around the floor (and at a certain point Jehan didn’t really believe Courfeyrac knows what they were doing either).

_Forward_

Jehan looked into Courfeyrac’s eyes and he could find the amusement in them; the lighter flecks of brown in the darker color.

_Back_

And he didn’t realize that Courfeyrac was staring back at him and not holding his frame.

_Left_

Courfeyrac didn’t look like he usually does, Jehan decided after analyzing his friend’s face. He lost none of his charm and charisma; they were both still there but they were subdued and part of his radiance (in this moment, at least) comes from the subtly they contribute to his countenance. His expression wasn’t big and exaggerated like it usually is when they’re with their friends, but he maintained his warmth without being comical and open as usual. He was more guarded yet still compassionate. Jehan held him tightly (in part so he didn’t fall and bring Courfeyrac down with him), and he was sure the brunette could feel the admiration and reverence pouring from his touch.

_Rotate_

Courfeyrac guided them gently across the floor, leading them past the CD player and only letting go to press play again. Jehan didn’t see the admiration in Courfeyrac’s gaze, but he wasn’t looking for it.

_Spin_

Courfeyrac lifted his arm and twirls Jehan, eliciting a smile and a small giggle from the poet. Courfeyrac smiled in return, holding his arm up as Jehan spun round and round, his braid flowing behind him.

_Right_

Courfeyrac took the poet back in his arms and pulled him into the center of the room. He let go and dropped the frame, only to bring his arms back around Jehan’s shoulders (and poor Jehan looked confused and moderately terrified, but to his credit, he was still smiling). They stood in stillness as the music floated around them. Courfeyrac turned to face the mirror (but did not let go) right before the song ends.

After appraising himself, he cast his gaze downwards.

“Are you all right?”

At that Courfeyrac flicked his head up to stare at the poet.  He smiled (but it was sad and didn’t quite reach his eyes).

“Of course,” he started, pulling away. Jehan instantly missed the warmth and had to fight the urge to reach out to his friend. “It was an honor,” Courfeyrac continued with a low and graceful bow, “to dance with one such as yourself.”

“You flatter me,” Jehan replied nervously, hands twirling the end of his sweater. “I’m quite sure the honor was mine, dear friend.”

Courfeyrac laughed at their mock formality, but the air of melancholy surrounding him didn’t dissipate. Jehan wished he could fan it away, but he knew he was too small to do it by himself (and without a fan) and of course he realized that wasn’t actually possible.

After a moment Courfeyrac tore his eyes away from the floor and the mirror and settled his gaze on Jehan. Jehan would’ve trembled if he hadn’t thought Courfeyrac was Medusa in that moment, because the poet had been paralyzed in place (that is to say, Courfeyrac’s gaze was incredibly intense and it was all Jehan could do to not fall over and faint).

In a moment Courfeyrac had crossed the distance between the two, wrapped his arms around Jehan, and swept the poet into a very tight embrace. After the shock of the sudden contact had passed, Jehan returned the hug. He closed his eyes as he nuzzled into Courfeyrac’s chest, enjoying the warmth radiating from the taller man. He could hear Courfeyrac faintly hum and feel the sound reverberate throughout his friend’s being and he could feel Courfeyrac’s lips pressing into the top of his head and then he couldn’t feel anything, because as quickly as Courfeyrac had pulled him into the embrace, he had let go and stepped away.

By the time Jehan opened his eyes, the other man had gone, but he had restarted the song first. Jehan stood there in the center of the room watching his reflection as the song played through (he hadn’t looked at the CD player in detail since he entered the room, so he wouldn’t know, but Courfeyrac had started the second track instead of replaying the first as he had been doing).

It was soft, quiet, barely a whisper, but at the end of the track Jehan could swear he could hear it. It woke him from his silent reverie and he instantly opened the player took the CD and ran back to his apartment (which wasn’t too far of a run, but the feat was decently impressive nonetheless).

He shoved the CD into his laptop as soon as he got into his room, ignoring the raised brows and questioning looks that Combeferre and Enjolras (who of course were studying in the kitchen) had given him. He listened to most of the first song through his speakers, as he rummaged around his books and papers and pens to find his headphones. When he found them he finished the end of the first song and paid close attention to every note of the second.

This time he was sure it existed and that his mind wasn’t playing a hurtful game of wishful thinking and auditory hallucinations on him.

It’s quiet, but it was there. It was definitely, _definitely_ , there.

A whisper, barely audible, but Jehan heard it because it was meant for him.

_I love you._

 

 


End file.
